


Time And Tide

by CommanderRoastedWolf



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Bi Jaina, Blizzard Can't Write Women So Fans Have To, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/F, Former Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Hints of Lor'themar/Rommath, Hurt/Comfort, Jaina thinks she's a top, Lesbian Sylvanas, Most Characters Are LGBT+, Old Gods, Past and Present, Politics, Slow Burn, dramatic turns, it's really hammy but you gotta love it, ships, sylvanas is really dramatic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17433053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderRoastedWolf/pseuds/CommanderRoastedWolf
Summary: Summoned by someone she has not thought to see again, Jaina Proudmoore finds herself on that Tides forsaken cliff, under that tree.





	1. The Edge of the Night

Rain falls heavy on her shoulders as she stares out to the iron hard grey of the sea. It drums hard on the back of her head, leaking through her hair and into her cloak, cold against her skin. She stares out, watching the white tips of the waves lick the air, horses galloping there, surging - it seems to her - out of the waters with every crest. At her back stands a gnarled old tree, swaying slightly on its perch, leaves dusting the wind, branches vaulting to the sky like fingers trying to grasp what it can never have. It sighs and murmurs as the storm draws closer, lightning flashing on the horizon, the low murmur of thunder a while away yet. 

She does not know why she’s here. 

Jaina Proudmoore adjusts her grip on her staff, exhaling shortly. The letter, crumpled in the inside of her cloak, seems to burn against her side. She is well aware of it. The spiky black words, so familiar, but so different. 

_ ‘Meet by the tree. On the cliff. Come alone.’ _

So here she is. Waiting. Always waiting.  _ One day I’ll do no waiting.  _

She had not thought to see the woman again. While both their hands are red with spilt blood, hers are so much fresher. Teldrassil. The Undercity. Brennadam. All in all, Jaina had never felt so sour about being so right.  _ “Will you act when Teldrassil falls? When they are burning a world tree?”  _ She supposes it is too late, now. Too late to act. 

“You came.”

The pointed, haughty voice electrifies her, as it always had, as it always would - ever since those youthful days in Dalaran, when she was young and stupid and vain enough to believe in something so ridiculous as love. She does not turn around. She does not give into the temptation, but even her frail human hearing can hear the creak of a saddle, the click of stirrups, the sound of armour shifting against armour, a bow being secured. 

“I don’t have much time.” Jaina answers curtly, lifting her chin, her gaze sightless as she watches the horizon as though her life depends on it. “I am only here for old times sake.” 

She stands beside her. Even at this distance, Jaina can feel the uneasy power of the darkness within the woman. It makes her skin prickle, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as the very earth below her feet seems to wilt. 

“We both know that is a lie.” Sylvanas replies coldly. Out of the corner of Jaina’s eye, she sees Sylvanas turn to her, her lips pressing into a smirk. Red eyes, cold, but burning still, rake over her slowly until a little laugh breaches the silence.  _ Arrogant bitch. _

Jaina withdraws her gaze again rather pointedly, ignoring the words. But then indignation scalds her insides as Sylvanas turns as though to leave, speaking with that haughty amusement that makes Jaina want to hit her. 

Sylvanas adjusts her cloak, her ears twitching every now and again as rain drops hit them. Jaina again averts her eyes, annoyed at herself for looking as a memory comes unbidden to her - of happier, brighter times. They stand in silence for a long moment, listening to the oncoming storm, the bursts of lightning, and the soaring roar of the wind. The tree at their back creaks, withstanding the weather with its mighty trunk. 

“Why-” Jaina begins, loathe to be the first to speak. How she hates these stupid little games between them. 

Sylvanas interrupts her with her usual cool indifference. “I wanted to see you.” 

A little stumped, Jaina actually turns her head fully, surprised to see Sylvanas is still looking at her, still watching her. Her ears are pricked, focused intently on her, her expression devoid of any emotion but the slightest hint of something like determination in her eyes. Her pale hair drifts in the wind, like souls lost at sea.  _ Determination about what? _ Jaina thinks to herself, adjusting her grip on her staff.

“Don’t you have spies that can see me for you?” Jaina sneers eventually, deciding not to let her guard down - or to let her anger go. “I know you have them. And when I catch them, I’ll toss them into my harbour, where they belong.”

Unblinking, Sylvanas shifts her position slightly, her armour creaking. “I wanted to see you in person. You came, which means I am not the only one.” 

Jaina snorts in a rather undignified manner. She wonders, not for the first time, if Sylvanas actually felt under that cold, callous, heartless exterior.  _ Not bloody likely.  _ “Yes. Quite. Well, get on with it, then. I already told you I don’t have a lot of time.”

If Jaina did not know Sylvanas well enough, she would have missed the tiny twitch in her face. An indication of irritation, perhaps. It gives her a nauseating surge of satisfaction.

“Are you still fucking that beast?” Sylvanas asks instead, in the same tone someone would remark on the weather. “Or did he prove a little too,” her red eyes dart up and down the length of Jaina’s body, “ _ much _ for you?”

Feeling the red flush of anger and embarrassment rising up her chest and cheeks, Jaina snaps back, quite ignoring the icy cube of shame which settles in her stomach. She hadn’t seen Kalec for a long while. “I didn’t come here to discuss my love life, thank you. Do get on with whatever you’re going to prattle on about.” 

“Very well.” Sylvanas seems to draw herself more upright, shifting on her pointy little boots, adjusting her body almost mechanically. “We both know there is much more to this world than petty faction war. Dangers-”

“A ‘petty faction war’ you started, Sylvanas!” Jaina interrupts hotly. 

“The Alliance started this when they came after me in Stormheim. When they killed innocent goblins in Silithus” Sylvanas replies calmly, crossing her arms over her chest. Jaina lets out a shout of laughter. 

“You were crawling all over there, up to something shady. Genn was doing what was best for all of us, deterring you. And we both know those goblins weren't innocent.” Jaina shakes her head. “If you’re only here to argue the logistics of this war with me, then I’d rather shove a cactus up my-"

“The Old Gods are rising.” 

SIlence.

Jaina opens her mouth to argue, but Sylvanas cuts across her. “They are rising, and we both know it. Everything I do, I do to save Azeroth. This war? Get rid of the Alliance, so that the Horde may thrive. To put an end to the disputes, so we may be united against the true enemy.” 

“You  _ burnt Teldrassil to the ground! _ ” Jaina shouts. Sylvanas’ ears flicker at the sudden volume. “You  _ slaughtered  _ thousands of innocent people! You destroyed the home of the kaldorei and turned a World Tree to ash! You Blighted your own people, raised your  _ own _ people into undeath! How- how could you be so arrogant to stand there and say this is for ‘the greater good’?!” 

Sylvanas smirks in the face of her rage, her eyes glowing smugly as she speaks. “Because it is.” 

Jaina’s hand cracks across Sylvanas’ face faster than Sylvanas can react. Forgetting somehow that she has  _ magic _ , Jaina propels herself forward, knuckles white with the tightness of her fist as rage burns through her. Her staff clatters to the side as she tries to give Sylvanas another hard punch. An iron hard grip finds her wrist, diverting her strength over Sylvanas’ shoulder. A blow lands to her stomach. Another to her ribs. She grunts in pain, slamming her head into Sylvanas’ nose, satisfied when she hears a crunch.

Steel cold fingers find the back of her head and yank her back. Panting, Jaina glares into those eyes, feeling an arm go around her waist, pulling her flush against the cool indifference which makes up Sylvanas’ body. Black ichor, too thick to be blood, leaks out of Sylvanas’ nose, shimmering as the rain catches it and washes it away. Her cowl had escaped her at some point during the scuffle, and her long ears are focused on Jaina again as they stare at each other. 

“Let go of me!” Jaina snarls, struggling for a moment, unwilling to feel the surge of emotion deep within her. 

“Not until you  _ listen _ ,” Sylvanas hisses back, “to what I have to say.” 

“You have nothing to say!” Jaina rages, trying to give Sylvanas another headbutt, but the Warchief is ready for her. Jerking her head away, she gives Jaina’s hair another yank, earning her a hard kick in the shin which makes Jaina’s toe ache as her leather boot meets the metal of her greave. 

Sylvanas’ grip on her tightens like a vice. Jaina finally relents, settling, glaring, knowing that Sylvanas would never truly hurt her. She isn’t the only one here for old times sake. They examine each other, before Sylvanas speaks in a grating sort of way, as though she is loathe to confess. 

“I did not wish to burn the tree.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Jaina replies coldly. She is almost tempted to spit in Sylvanas’ face, her breathing heavy and hot with anger, ignoring the way her heart leaps in her chest as she feels Sylvanas adjust her grip on her, loosening her hold. The thought certainly crosses her mind when Sylvanas leans a little closer. 

If she truly wanted to, she could tear out of Sylvanas’ arms. And they both know it.

“If that fool Saurfang had killed Malfurion like I ordered,” Sylvanas says quietly, still staring at her intensely, “I would not have had to burn the tree. Alas, he did not, and here we stand. You know I make  _ every _ move with careful calculation, Jaina.” 

The name is velvet on those lips. By the Light, how she had wanted to hear it there for so long. Jaina’s stomach does a funny little turn in her belly.

“Did you come here to preach your innocence, Sylvanas?” Jaina snaps. “Or do you actually have something to say?”

“I came here to warn you.” 

Jaina opens her mouth to argue, but Sylvanas gives her no time. She is yanked forward into a hard kiss - one which takes her completely by surprise. Sylvanas’ mouth moves against hers with almost ravenous hunger and, after a moment of feeling her heart stutter with the shock, Jaina kisses back, her eyes sliding closed, arms wrapping around the undead elf’s neck, pulling her close. 

They had not kissed in eleven years. Eleven years. Jaina whimpers despite herself, crushing herself close to her former lover, tears hot and wet stinging her eyes as she squeezes them tightly closed. Sylvanas’ grip on her tightens, the hand in her hair coiling almost painfully. She tastes cold, but not unpleasant, and her mouth seems to warm as Jaina’s tongue slips inside, brushing against fangs she had missed for over a decade. 

They draw apart. Jaina breathes heavily, their foreheads coming together as the rain continues to fall. 

“I was a fool in my life.” Sylvanas breathes. Jaina opens her eyes, meeting Sylvanas’ gaze. “But that fool made the right choice when she chose you.”

“Wait-”

Sylvanas pulls out of her grip, sweeping away, her cloak catching the wind dramatically as she strides to her undead mount. Jaina blinks stupidly, and can do nothing as the Banshee Queen hoists herself into the saddle with practiced ease. Iron strong fingers find the reins, and red eyes catch hers as Sylvanas wheels her horse around. 

“Heed my warning.” Sylvanas says curtly. “Watch the waves,  _ Lord-Admiral _ .”

With a last loaded look, the Warchief urges her horse away, leaving Jaina standing on the cliff, under the tree. 

Rain falls heavy on her shoulders. The wind kicks against her back. And the tree sways, branches reaching for the sky, like fingers trying to catch smoke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH BABEY! I'M BACK!  
> Expect perhaps more.


	2. The Trees Are Now Turning From Green To Gold

“Dark Lady.” The Forsaken guard bows respectfully as she enters the room.

Sylvanas strides across the blood red carpet to the war table, well aware of the Dark Rangers standing in the shadows, sensitive to their presence as she is with all her people. She is still damp from the rain. She can smell it on herself, fresh and clean and it leaves a sourness in her mouth as she grasps for the glass of wine she can barely taste as she comes to a halt at the table.

The map before her is almost identical to the copy in Orgrimmar. Little Horde faction symbol figurines litter Azeroth’s surface, most of them gathering in Orgrimmar and across Kalimdor, as well as several in Zandalar. A few smaller ones dot Kul’tiras. There are similar figurines representing the Alliance forces and her eyes fall on one which rests in Boralus.

She had hoped the war would be over by now. Quick, decisive action. That was what she was good at. She had hoped to smash the Alliance apart, with the burning of Teldrassil, and then the battle at Undercity - to end the tyranny of the Little Lion’s forces with one fell swoop before crushing any other opposition and bringing the rest of the peoples of Azeroth into the Horde. She had hoped to raize Stormwind to the ground, to take back that final stronghold and take Lion’s seat for herself.

Alas, it was not to be. Jaina Proudmoore had interfered. Saurfang had interfered and worse, betrayed the Horde. If it wasn’t for one of her faithful champions informing her of the old fool’s betrayal… well. Anger gnaws at her insides as she reaches forward and plucks up a tiny Kul’tiras anchor. She presses her thumb into the sharp corner for a long moment, before the dull sensation of pain winds its way up her arm, ichor welling around the metal point. Disgusted, she tosses the anchor across the table carelessly and wipes her thumb on the inside of her cloak.

“Warchief.” Lor’themar Theron enters the room slowly, as though he had not been expecting her to be in there. Behind him trails his little lover - Sylvanas had always known Lor’themar had a soft spot for the Grand Magister, and he did an exceedingly bad job of hiding it. “I had not thought to look for you until the morrow.”

He comes to a halt at the opposite side of the table, Rommath taking a quiet vigil beside the closing door at the back of the room. She takes a sip of wine, tasting it only dully.

Adjusting her stance, she takes up the discarded Kul’tiran figurine and places it delicately back in Boralus. “My business was concluded swifter than I anticipated.” She replies, ignoring the faint stirring of pressure in her chest where her dead heart sits. “Worry not Theron, I will be out of your hair before daybreak.”

She offers him a cold smirk. At this, he draws several papers out of his cloak, resting them on the table. Then, his finger taps them, remaining eye meeting hers with the usual attentive intensity of his people. “The Alliance are making for Silvermoon. The report came in this afternoon. They are marching this way, ten thousand strong. They have men. And draenei.”

Narrowing her eyes, she reaches across the table for the reports. Lor’themar hands them to her, ears twitching as he does so. She flicks through them. Skimming. Absorbing quietly. The last time a human had marched on Silvermoon-

“You will have resources at your disposal.” She says abruptly. “We cannot give up our hold on the Eastern Kingdoms.”

Lor’themar’s hand tightens suddenly, eye narrowing, ears flicking back. He looks like an angry bird of prey. “I will not have Blight on my lands, Sylvanas. Not even for you. And I will not have _my_ people raised like the others were in at the battle for the Undercity.”

Irritation unfurls within her. She eyes Lor’themar coldly for a moment, before placing the reports down. _Fools. Don’t they realise none of this matters?_ “My, my, Regent Lord, I thought you wanted to _win_ this war.”

“Not with that.” Lor’themar replies firmly. “You may be Warchief, but I am still Regent Lord. These are my lands. And these are my people.”

They stare at each other. They had once been her people, too. And what irritates her most is that they are both thinking it. She can see it in his eye, in the corners of his face, in the slight furrow of his brow as he adjusts his position very minutely. She hates him for it. _If I could, I would raise the whole lot of you._ Finally, as the silence stretches between them, she narrows her eyes.

“Very well.” He starts to relax, the tiny lowering of his ears, the drop of his shoulders, which rise right back up when she speaks again. “On one condition. I will let you have your little game, Lor’themar, but if you lose Silvermoon, I will deploy the Blight. I would rather that than the Alliance take the city.”

“Trust me.” He murmurs. “The Alliance will have no city to take if they reach that far.”

Somehow, she does not doubt him. He continues anyway.

“If we are to surrender the city, it will be on our terms. And our terms only. I will withdraw my people before the battle begins, all civilians will make for Orgrimmar.” He points at the sin’dorei figureheads at the northern tip of the Eastern Kingdoms. “I will leave behind all military personnel. Then, I will do what I have to. Should the gates fall, I will lead the Alliance army into the city center myself.” He rests his hand on the Silvermoon City marker. “They will meet their end there.”

Rommath shifts in his place by the door. Sylvanas remains quiet. Watching. Waiting. Listening to the faint, steady beat of Lor’themar’s heart. _He means to die. For Silvermoon. For Quel’thalas._

“I will not accept the Blight tainting Silvermoon.” He says finally, his eye rising to meet hers, green fire flickering with the onset of gold, thanks to the Sunwell.

She nods her head.

He gives her a neat little bow, and dismisses himself, turning away and striding firmly out of the room. She meets Rommath’s eyes for a brief flicker before he follows the Ranger-Lord, closing the door quietly behind him. She drops her gaze to the table. Reaches for an Alliance lion, and places it in the Plaguelands.

_Shindu fallah na._

Sylvanas turns on her heel swiftly, leaving behind the glass of wine and making her way towards the door, opening it and passing into the corridor beyond. Two of her Dark Rangers fall into step behind her, silent in the flickering light from the torches on the walls, turning the brash red of the furnishings to blood. She does not like staying in Silvermoon. Too many memories. As a rule, she keeps herself firmly in the present, firmly in the now. But here amongst the hallowed halls of the people she died for, even she cannot help but reflect.

“Patrol the city.” She orders as she draws up to the door of the room sequestered for her. Her Rangers melt into the shadows between the torches, and she feels a burst of satisfaction, knowing her words will be obeyed without question.

The room beyond is dark but for a single candle on the parchment strewn desk under the window, the fireplace cold. The candle light is splintered, guttering now and again, burnt low in the stick. White wax has spilt from it like pale, frozen blood. She stares at it for a moment before sweeping her gaze around the rest of the room. There is a bed made for her - a four poster, covered in rich purple sheets, the symbol spiked of the Horde in white over the covers. Pillows, plush and soft, would have looked inviting if she had any need for real sleep.

She closes the door behind her, leaning against it as she slowly locks herself in. Here, alone, she is free to think.

_Jaina._

It had been hard to see her. To witness her. Sylvanas raises a hand to her lips, tracing her mouth thoughtfully. It had been eleven years since she had kissed her. Eleven years and she still felt the same. The thought fills her with sickening longing. She recalls the look on Jaina’s face as she’d brought up the damned tree. Gods damn that tree.

Regret washes over her as she stands fully, making her way slowly to the armour stand and beginning to unbuckle her pauldrons. Gods, the screams. She can hear them, still, and smell the smoke as Teldrassil had burnt. Warchief Sylvanas did not regret. Warchief Sylvanas smirked and laughed and japed about the tree. But here, alone, Sylvanas Windrunner, failed protector of her people, is allowed to mourn.  

If Saurfang had done as she had ordered, the entire matter could have been avoided. Her plan had been simple; so simple. Take the tree, implant her forces, take control with as little civilian loss as possible. But no. The thrice damned _fool_ had to harken to honour. _Honour only serves the living and the lost._ She thinks bitterly, fingers working at the buckles of her chest piece. _What is honour to a corpse?_

Nothing. And now he means to betray her. _Alliance conspirator. I will have him tried for treason._

Although, she cannot quite find herself innocent of that, either.

Still. The deed is done. Teldrassil gone, lives lost. The Undercity had been necessary. But seeing Jaina had brought back too many things she had long thought buried. She had forgotten her scent. Light, flowery with perfume, which did nothing to hide the taint of ozone that permeated all arcane users. And her warmth. Gods, her warmth… like the light of the sun.

Sylvanas hangs the last of her armour on the stand, dressed in comfortable leathers and a loose cotton shirt. Shoving a hand roughly through her hair, she settles in the chair at the desk, plucking up a report.

_‘The ships of the Zandalari will prove vital…’_

She had kissed her back. Despite everything. Despite the years and the blood and the pain between them, Jaina had kissed her back. Sylvanas could not even find it within herself to answer the question of why she had kissed her in the first place. _Foolish sentimentality._

Giving her head a little shake, she goes back to reading.

_‘Vulpera have already begun supplying the Horde - the Alliance have begun burning them and their caravans. We are moving troops to aid in Vol’dun, and-’_

But would Jaina listen to her? Heed her warning?

Frustrated, Sylvanas shoves the report away from her. She gets to her feet, starting to pace up and down on the thick carpet, thinking furiously. Rain patters on the window, carving paths across the glass, thunder rumbling somewhere overhead. The night is dark, however, and the sky is furrowed with clouds. She finds herself staring out, resting her hands on the back of the chair.

Time is running out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that 'I Don't Think Now is the Best Time' from Pirates of the Caribbean is the main source of inspiration of this fic


	3. Echoes of the Past 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina experiences gay panic for the first time in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my fiancée, who even after two and a half years, still manages to make me feel like this.

_With a sigh,_  
_You turn away._  
_With a deepening heart -_  
_No more words to say._  
_You will find,_  
_That the world has changed_  
_Forever!_  
I amar prestar aen _(The world has changed)._  
_And the trees are now_  
_Turning from green to gold!_  
_And the sun is now fading…_  
_I wish I could hold you_  
_Closer_  
_Time and tide will sweep all away!_

 _-_ Arwen’s Song, Lord of the Rings

  

* * *

 

The forest is quiet around Jaina as she rides atop her mare. It is early autumn, the last of the summer fading as the days grow shorter and shorter. The trees flutter in the breeze, turning their leaves to the sky in the late afternoon light. Birds chant their chorus, a bee buzzing lazily by Jaina’s head. The sweet, warm air lulls her into a sense of security, adjusting her seat on the pale horse, shifting her grip on her book on translocation.

She is heading back to Dalaran after a day to herself. She had spent it well. A long, easy ride in the morning, heading to the forest, before a quick lunch and a swim in the lake, before a slow return to the city. A peaceful day, for a peaceful end to the summer. Arthas hadn’t written to her in a while - ever since their ‘split’, she had taken to burying herself in her studies. That, and avoiding looking too hard at Zaelrin, the handsome Quel’dorei blacksmith who came to Dalaran to offer her wears every so often.

Jaina adjusts her skirts, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. Before Arthas had unceremoniously dumped her, she hadn’t had much time to think about the possibility of women. It had always been about him, much to her father’s encouragement. Although in her much younger days, she had looked upon the other girls with what she had thought was envy. She couldn’t say she was envious of Zaelrin, though. The broad shoulders, quirking smirk, vibrant blue eyes and hair shaven short...

Zaelrin never noticed her.

She sighs, peering down at her book and then closing it with a huff. It isn’t as though she can concentrate now. She neatly tucks the volume away into her saddlebag, and grasps the reins. Flower, her mare, chuffs as Jaina eases her into a gentle trot, moving with the horse with practiced ease. She is twenty. Young and able, and even if Arthas does not return to her, she knows she can find another nice nobleman to settle down with. Perhaps someone with less responsibility. Or, she dares to think, a noble blacksmith woman, with strong shoulders and warm, tough hands. Or a dashing ranger, lithe and strong and swift.

She has been reading too many silly romance novels.

Urging Flower into a canter, and then a gallop, she follows the road through the forest, leaning over her mare’s neck, sitting slightly up in the saddle, allowing her steed to carry her easily. Try as she might, she can’t get the blacksmith’s shoulders out of her head. She bites her lip with irritation, giving herself a little shake. _Come now, Jaina, now isn’t the time for stupid fantasies._

With a feeling of reckless abandon, she yanks Flower around, feeling the mare skid slightly and give a little whinny of shock. But the horse finds her footing, bolting off the road and into the forest, skipping easily over branch and root, kicking up leaves in her wake.

Heart thundering, Flower’s hooves beating the ground in a hypnotic rhythm, Jaina feels herself full of rebellious courage. The next time she saw Zaelrin, she would speak to her. Perhaps ask her for a drink. It isn’t as though Arthas wants her. She has nothing to lose. And maybe, maybe, she is still a little heartbroken about the whole thing.

“Halt!”

The shout electrifies Jaina. Snapping out of her insipid daze, she yanks hard on Flower’s reins, feeling the horse rise under her as Flower rears, kicking out with her powerful forelegs. With a rather undignified yelp, Jaina topples backwards, over Flower’s hind quarters and lands hard on the sweet, dry earth, her head cracking against something which makes her teeth rattle.

Jaina has a moment of the world spinning, and quiet voices, before a figure comes into her gradually darkening vision.

“Endal, malanore…”

She knows no more.

...

_Firm hands carry her across the leaf strewn earth._

_Soft, but calloused fingers trace her cheeks and feel her forehead. Alien voices speak a strange, lilting tongue._

_Bright blue eyes glint in the half dark._

…

“Ah…” Jaina hisses, feeling herself starting to come to. Her head is pounding. The tang of blood is all too stark in her mouth, her body aching. She can smell woodsmoke, and hear the rush of water, echoing around her as though she is caught in some great chamber. The ground is hard below her and as she shifts her hands, she feels the unmistakable soft of mageweave.

She opens her eyes.

Her surroundings take a little moment to come into focus. The cave around her is full of dancing light. It flickers against rough, limestone walls, glimmering, reflected off the pool near where she is laying. The entrance is hidden by a rushing waterfall, the spray not coming near her by either luck, or enchantment. She blinks sluggishly, realising the light is coming from a warm fire surrounded by small stones to keep the blaze contained. A rainbow dances in the spray coming from the water and with a dull sort of wonder she watches it.

“You’re awake.”

Jaina snaps her head aside, only to groan as the cave starts spinning around her. The stranger leans towards her as she screws her eyes shut, trying to stay the rush of nausea and she feels a cool hand press into her forehead for a moment.

“Steady. Can you remember what happened?” The voice has a slight accent, although it speaks Common perfectly. Jaina casts her mind back, remembering yanking Flower off the path, the shout and the fall.

“Fell.” She replies thickly. “Horse startled… fell over backwards and hit my head.”

“Good.”

Jaina opens her eyes a little more slowly this time, the sharp, eagle-eyed face of the High Elf swimming into focus. She is beautiful, in that way elves always are. There is something dangerous about the lithe body, coiled on the floor of the cave - Jaina is forcefully reminded of a great cat, especially as those glowing eyes simmer in the half-light of the fire. Long, delicate ears are focused on her, the right one twitching as though listening to something outside of the cave. She is dressed in worn riding leathers, and a comfortable looking linen shirt, the casual way she sits doing nothing to hide the obvious strength in her arms and shoulders.

_Beautiful…_

“Who…?” Jaina begins, but the Quel’dorei answers at once.

“Ranger-General of Silvermoon, Sylvanas Windrunner. I sent my rangers ahead to Dalaran, Lady Proudmoore. A woman of your standing deserves a little more than just a ranger tending to your concussion. We are currently sheltering in a ranger retreat, near Dalaran. We would have taken you to the city directly, but the weather turned foul.”

Windrunner… the name is familiar to her, in a distant sort of way. For some reason it reminds her of dusty parchment and classrooms. Then, her stomach beings to dissolve with embarrassment. By the Tides. Sylvanas _Windrunner._ Legendary ranger, hero of the Quel’dorei. Jaina had been hearing stories about her since she had been knee high. Learning about her and her people in her youth, in stuffy classrooms. Jaina feels her face start to heat, and hopes against hope the warmth of the fire hides her blush of mortification.

“Lady Windrunner,” Jaina wracks her brain for anything resembling her etiquette lessons. Her dullard brain, however, is about as useful as a sieve in a rainstorm. “I- I am honoured to meet you. Thank you very much for tending to me.”

Lady Windrunner gives a husky little laugh, which Jaina feels right in her core.

“There is no need for airs and graces, Lady Proudmoore.” The Ranger-General gives her a sharp smile, which shows off the fangs. Jaina tries very hard not to feel overwhelmed. “You may call me Sylvanas if you wish. Your horse is safe as well, if you were wondering. She has been stabled with my own.”

Sylvanas lays another log on the fire and Jaina manages to sit up slightly, hands pinching against the cave floor as she leans on them. She takes a steadying breath to calm her heart which is thrashing against her ribs in both intrigue and nerves. _Just keep calm, Jaina. Deep breaths. By the Tides, she’s like a goddess…_

“You may call me Jaina,” she blurts. Her cheeks still feel as though they’re radiating enough heat to rival the sun. “I’m still grateful for you tending to me. I am usually a better rider than that.”

“Very well, Jaina,” Sylvanas says, her mouth wrapping around the name in ways Jaina hadn’t even thought possible. Sylvanas meets her gaze for a moment, and she feels her heart actually skip a beat. “Your horse startled at the trap we laid. You would have run right into it if she hadn’t.”

Jaina wonders why the Ranger-General of Silvermoon is so far south, but knows better than to ask. Instead, she replies with a politeness she is relieved she still manages given the steady pounding of her head. “I apologise for interrupting your business, Lady- ah. Sylvanas.” _Why am I so flustered?_ “I hope you and your rangers had good hunting.”

“Not at all.” Sylvanas gets to her feet with the typical easy grace of her people, sweeping her cloak around her shoulders and drawing the hood up over her head; her ears poke through the holes and she shifts them a little, as though getting them comfortable. She swings a beautifully crafted quiver over her shoulders, and tightens the strap before turning to look back at Jaina. “Remain here. I will fetch us something to eat. You should rest.”

Before Jaina can protest - or say anything at all - Sylvanas has plucked up her heavy looking bow and passed easily through the waterfall. As her cloak slips through the water, Jaina realises that the entire thing is an illusion when she misses the sound of water against canvas. The magic of the elves is legendary indeed, but to have an illusion of an entire waterfall hiding a cave mouth…

_Well. She did say it was a ranger’s retreat. That must mean they have little camps like this scattered throughout the land._

Grateful for the chance to organize her thoughts, Jaina sits up a little more, resting against the cave wall as she stretches her legs out in front of her. What a mess. The potential political consequences for this make her head ache even more, and she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. As the daughter of Daelin Proudmoore, she knows her way around most political happenings. Etiquette aside, Jaina knows she is good at diplomacy. She always has been, but this? Looking like a fool in front of the _Ranger-General_ of Silvermoon… Quel’dorei are already legendary, and although they are allies with the rest of the Alliance, they are distinctly cold and reclusive. Jaina had hoped to one day visit the court of Silvermoon as an ambassador of Kul’tiras. And now - well. It isn’t as though Sylvanas is like to forget her.

She groans.

Sylvanas does not return for an hour or so. Jaina dozes idly, her chin dropping against her chest, but awakens quickly when she hears the sound of footsteps. Rubbing her eyes with a swift movement of her right hand, Jaina looks up in time to see Sylvanas stepping back into the cave, carrying a rabbit by its ears. Feeling much more put together, Jaina manages to make eye contact when she thanks Sylvanas.

“You are welcome.” Sylvanas replies, crouching by the fire. “How are you feeling?”

Jaina manages a smile. “Better, thank you. I think the worst of it has passed. Would you like help with the rabbit?”

With a quirk of one long eyebrow, Sylvanas aquiesses, handing Jaina the rabbit before flicking a knife out of her belt, giving it a skillful twirl in those long fingers of hers before holding it out to Jaina, handle first. With a flustered word of thanks, Jaina leans forward, admiring the elvish dagger as it glints keenly in the light. It is deadly, much like its mistress, narrow, with a typical Quel’dorei curve and a beautiful antler handle, wrapped with worn leather.

Thanking her youthful wanderings in the woods with her brothers, Jaina starts skinning the rabbit with practiced ease, aware of Sylvanas’ gaze. A familiar part of her wants to impress the ranger, wants to prove she isn’t some damsel in distress. She manages to spill little in the way of blood, and soon the rabbit is skewered over the fire, roasting warmly. Sylvanas even sprinkles some elven herbs over it, giving the ordinarily plain meat a mouthwatering smell of warmth and heart.

“Well. They certainly make Kul’Tirans differently, don’t they?” Sylvanas says as Jaina wipes her hands clean with a cloth, summoning a hint of frost onto her fingers to give them a wash. Pleased, Jaina nods her head.

“We were born with the salt and iron of the sea in our blood - so they say anyway.” She replies, gently rolling the rabbit’s skin away and depositing the offel into a cloth, tying it up and setting it aside. She holds the skin out to Sylvanas, who takes it from her gently. “Thank you again for tending to me.”

“Again, you are welcome.” Sylvanas offers her that smile again, fang catching the firelight. “What were you doing out here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jaina drops her gaze to clean the dagger, wiping it gently and making sure all the blood is off. “It was a day away from my studies, so I decided to go for a ride.” She sighs. “I’ll stay on the path next time, I think. Here-”

But as Jaina goes to hand the dagger back to her, Sylvanas offers her the sheath, resting her hand over Jaina’s and giving her a little squeeze. “Keep it. You showed skill with a blade - and it will serve as a reminder to you of our meeting.”

“I really don’t think I’m like to forget.” Jaina replies without thinking. Sylvanas smiles a tiny, secretive little smile at her as Jaina feels her face flush again, but she holds the elf’s gaze. She sheathes the knife, feeling the soft, well worn leather under her fingers as she attaches it to her belt.

Relaxing back beside the fire with that cat-like grace, Sylvanas nods her head. “Come, we should eat, and rest. Tomorrow, I will return you to Dalaran.”

They eat in companionable silence. The rabbit is delicious - juicy and tender, and Jaina almost wishes for more. But she eats what is offered, even going so far as to refuse the final leg until Sylvanas laughs a silvery laugh and presses the meat into her hands. When they are done, hands and faces washed with water from Sylvanas’ waterskin, Jaina settles back amongst her bedding, exhaustion weighing her eyelids heavy.

“I can take the watch, if you want.” Jaina slurs. But Sylvanas shakes her head.

“Rest, Jaina. I will wake you with the dawn.”

Without the energy to fight back, Jaina nods mutely. Sylvanas rests against the cave wall again, her gaze trained on the entrance, leg crooked as her arm lays carelessly over her knee. She is heart achingly beautiful. Jaina almost feels breathless as she watches her. _I am lost._ The unfamiliar emotions stirring in her heart throw her feelings for Arthas into the cold. She had never felt like this.

Afraid of whatever it is drumming in her, Jaina surrenders herself to sleep, gripping the dagger tightly.

The next morning dawns brightly, and finds the pair of them on the road to Dalaran. Having woken herself just as the day began to grow light, Jaina had been determined to show Sylvanas that she could do at least a few things right. After chewing some mint to freshen her breath, and washing her face in the cave’s pool, Jaina had headed out of the cave herself, helping Sylvanas feed and water the horses, before saddling them. Sylvanas had left the cave intact, stating that her rangers would return shortly to rest.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Jaina says brightly, ignoring the dryness of her mouth as she sneaks looks at the Ranger-General. Sylvanas is dressed rather dashingly in her full ranger’s armour, pauldrons flanked with pale feathers. Her hood is up, ears poking through the careful holes, and they shift as Jaina speaks.

“Quite.” Sylvanas replies. They are walking steadily south, along the road which cuts through the forest, making their way slowly to Dalaran. “It is good weather for hunting. Clear, and dry.”

“Do you hunt often, then?” Jaina peers curiously at Sylvanas, admiring the strong thrust of her nose and brow, and the way her lips twitch into a smile. _Get a grip._ She swallows and directs her attention back to the road.

“Not as often as I would like.” Jaina hears what sounds like a waterskin being opened. “It is not proper for a Ranger-General to be seen hunting her own food, not when she should be attending to reports and schedules. But still, when needs must.”

The thought of Sylvanas being stuck behind a desk catches Jaina by surprise, and she feels almost sad. She is reminded forcefully of her own duties. To Dalaran. To Kul’Tiras. To Arthas. It sobers her, and she tightens her grip on the reins, feeling her heart sink as she spots Dalaran’s gates ahead. The forest is clearing around them, now, being replaced with fields which line the straight road to the city.

“Duty comes at a cost.” Jaina replies, unable to keep a vague strain of longing out of her voice. “I suppose we do what we have to.”

Sylvanas agrees with her, but makes no further comment, and they continue onwards in silence until they reach the gates. There, Sylvanas draws to a halt and Jaina does the same, their eyes meeting. She does not want to go. Not yet, and she casts around for something to say - to bathe in the High Elf’s presence for even a few seconds more.

“Thank you again.” Jaina says at last. “And, um, thank you for the dagger. I will treasure it.”

Sylvanas’ horse draws nearer to her, and Jaina blinks in surprise as Sylvanas takes her hand, drawing it to her mouth to press a gentle kiss against her knuckles. Blushing so hard she fears she might actually burst into flame, Jaina allows the touch, looking into those bright blue eyes, feeling light headed. The skin Sylvanas had kissed tingles slightly as she lowers it.

“I would very much like to see you again, Lady Jaina Proudmoore.” Sylvanas’ voice is low, husky, and her expression is intense. “Perhaps next time it will be in better circumstances.”

Jaina lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and she nods. “Oh. Yes, I would like that very much as well, Lady Sylvanas Windrunner.”

They linger there, on the outskirts of Dalaran, for a little moment longer, before Sylvanas gives her a respectful salute - touching her fist to her chest and bowing her head low - and steers her horse around skillfully, using only her legs. Jaina copies the salute, and catches the flash of a smile as the Ranger-General takes off down the road, kicking up dust in her wake as she gallops back towards the forest. When she reaches the border, Jaina watches as she wheels her horse around, urging the beast into a magnificent rear, the pale flash of her face telling Jaina that Sylvanas is looking back at her. 

Jaina knew, right there and then, she had fallen completely and utterly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World of Gaycraft amirite?
> 
> If u wanna see what Zaelrin looks like, you may :3c. Drawing credited to luna-mistrunner on tumblr. 
> 
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/240991251107807233/487315117743013908/Illustration3.png


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